


A Study in Bondlock

by Corrie71



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 19:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corrie71/pseuds/Corrie71
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Series of three longish drabbles based on the idea that John Watson and James Bond were more than friends in Afghanistan. The three chapters are unrelated--just different views of Sherlock's reaction to finding out about John's past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Three C

"Why did Bond call you Three C Watson?" Sherlock burst out into the early morning silence in 221B. "Is it a reference to that golden robot in that puerile movie you made me watch?"

John glanced up from his newspaper, his face crumpled into what Sherlock privately called his befuddled duck face. Sherlock watched avidly as realization dawned like sunrise. He loved cataloguing John's expressions, hoarding them like dragon treasure.

"Golden robot? Oh! Star Wars!" John giggled. "Uh, no. It's not related to C3PO." John continued giggling as he carried his tea mug to the sink, shaking his head. 

"You didn't answer my first question." Sherlock commented as casually as he could manage. Ever since that loathsome Bond case--really, he was going to have to find a way to plague Mycroft for that introduction-- this 3C reference nagged at Sherlock. Cat? Corpse? Cod? What on earth could it mean? No amount of deduction got him anywhere. It was utterly maddening not to know something about John, especially something that awful Bond did. He needed more data.

"Oh, 3C." John shrugged, his back to Sherlock. "Nothing. Just a joke." 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the blush creeping up John's neck. Ah, it was something embarrassing then. Crazy? Cook? Captain? This missing John story nagged at Sherlock like a loose tooth. He had to find the puzzle piece. 

"I could use a laugh." Sherlock remarked as he decamped to his comfy green chair and, for lack of anything better to do with his hands, picked up his violin bow to swing as nonchalantly as possible.

"It's a military nickname, yeah? Just guys taking the mickey, you know." John shrugged again before leaning against the doorframe from the kitchen. Sherlock studiously ignored how this made his slightly too small and too tight striped t-shirt ride up and expose a delicious stretch of tanned belly. Cap? Coffee? Cup?

"Yes, and I'm given to understand that there are always stories behind military appellations. I'm waiting to hear yours."

John sighed. "Not going to give up, eh? Okay then. I had lovers across three continents so I became Three C Watson." 

"Dull." Sherlock sighed, relieved to finally know the answer. 

"I didn't think so, mate, but to each his own." John laughed and shook his head.

"I should have known it would have to do with your prowess with women." Sherlock's head flopped onto the seat back, between-case ennui swamping him again.

"Who said they were all women?" John shot back before heading up the stairs to his room. 

Sherlock's bow slipped from his nerveless fingers. Before it could even stop bouncing on the floor, Sherlock arrived at the landing outside John's bedroom door. Without so much as a perfunctory knock, Sherlock slammed into the room. "But you said you were straight."

John didn't even comment on his flatmate's lack of personal boundaries as he pulled his shirt on. "Never said that. Said I wasn't gay."

Sherlock blinked and then stared, feeling like Christmas, his birthday, and a particularly vicious string of serial killers had arrived all at once. 

"And why do you care, Mr. "I'm married to my work"? John laughed, with bitter sounding edges. "You shot me down, remember?"

"Did I?" Sherlock mused. "How very, very foolish of me." He advanced on John and backed him into the bed. 

John smiled up at him. "Are you going to kiss me now or not?"

And so Sherlock did.


	2. Hey Jealousy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet another version of Bondlock

After their usual post-case Chinese food feast, Sherlock led a very sleepy John Watson carefully through the January ice slicked streets. They staggered up the stairs to their flat, both too exhausted to chat. When Sherlock came to a sudden stop, John walked right into his back. 

 

"What'd you stop for?" he slurred, swaying on his feet.

 

"Mycroft." Sherlock hissed at seeing his brother perched in John's chair, sipping tea out of his RAMC mug. He spared a glance toward the man standing at the windows, staring down at Baker Street, and decided he wasn't an imminent threat before turning back to his brother. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

 

"Good heavens, Sherlock. It's half two. Late night?" Mycroft answered, steel beneath the pleasantry.

 

"Wasn't aware we had a curfew, Mycroft." John snarked, fully awake now. Sherlock and John walked further into the living room just as the man in the dark suit at the window turned toward them, the orange tint from the streetlight below washing over his chiseled, handsome face. 

 

"Watson!" He cried, opening his arms. Sherlock jerked in surprise and turned toward him.

 

"Bond!" John cried. The two men strode across the room and embraced like old friends. Sherlock's eyes narrowed to slits as he assessed the stranger. MI6, if he wasn't much mistaken. What had Mycroft gotten them into now? And, far more importantly, why was this interloper hugging his John?

 

"Sherlock, this is Bond. James Bond. Old friend from the field. Bond, this is Sherlock, my flatmate." Sherlock tried very hard to ignore the little sting at not being introduced as a friend also but he managed an approximation of a smile and a handshake. 

 

"Now that we've had a touching reunion, it is getting late. Off you go Mycroft. Take your friend along." Sherlock scooped the mug out of Mycroft's hand and tried to push him out of the chair. Mycroft, being Mycroft, refused to budge. 

 

"Sherlock, be civil. I’m sure John is happy to see his old friend." Mycroft's subtle emphasis on the word friend stung again until Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Was there a reason John and this Bond fellow were standing so close, arms still loosely around each other? Surely not.

 

"Yes, Bond. I'm delighted to see you." John suppressed a yawn. "But, I have to admit, I'm a bit knackered. Perhaps we could catch up tomorrow?"

 

"We have a case that we think you might be able to help us with, Watson." Bond clapped a hand on John's shoulder. Sherlock considered how many bones there were to break in the human hand.

 

"Not interested." Sherlock pronounced before claiming his favorite chair and glowering at Mycroft.

 

"Well, even if he's not, I'll help." John said easily as he sat on the sofa next to Bond. "What can I do for you?"

 

The case turned out to be easily solved. By mid-afternoon, upon the fortuitous discovery of an embroidered pair of Mickey Mouse ears, a snowglobe, and a basket, Sherlock cracked it. The suspects vanished into Mycroft's shadowy custody and Bond, John, and Sherlock found themselves back outside Baker Street. 

 

"Lovely to have met you, Mr. Bond." Sherlock dismissed him, in his frostiest tone.

 

"Commander Bond, actually." He corrected easily as they shook hands. They all stood staring at each other for a moment, blinking like owls in the bright January sunshine. "Come on, John." Sherlock strode upstairs. When he noticed John's absence, he hovered on the landing, eavesdropping shamelessly.

 

"Thank you, John." Bond said, in a warm voice. He leaned toward him, inclining his head towards John's lips. Was he going to kiss his John? Sherlock, who normally couldn't distinguish his own emotions well enough to name them, recognized the bitter iron taste of jealousy. He couldn't have torn his gaze away if he tried. John placed his palm over Bond's heart and Sherlock felt his own heart squeeze painfully in his chest. John pushed Bond back and the two men locked eyes for an endless moment. "Ah, I see how it is. Does he know?"

 

"Not yet." John sighed. "And I'm not sure ever."

 

"Ah, well, then. Best of luck with that. Goodbye, John." Bond turned and strode away.

 

By the time John came upstairs, Sherlock was situated in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. John sat in the chair across from him. Absolute silence reigned for 30 seconds. 

 

"Things in the field...they get intense...adrenaline and all that." John stammered, flushing a bit.

 

"You have no need to explain yourself to me." Sherlock said in tones that would make the ice shrouded trees outside shiver. 

 

"We just worked together and..." John sighed and rose from the chair. He crossed the room to Sherlock who glared up at him. John bent and whispered in his ear, "I'll always love you best."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from an old Gin Blossoms song.


	3. Peep Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And a third variation of Bondlock.

There were certain facts that Sherlock knew to be true. 

For instance, he was a proper genius.

Thanks to John, he now knew that the earth revolved around the sun. Why anyone should care was a different question.

And also that John Watson was straight. After all, John proclaimed this fact at every opportunity, loudly and with vigor. Every time someone mentioned that he and Sherlock were a couple, married, or whatever other sly innuendo they could come up with, John immediately began with the "I'm not actually gay!" routine. 

So, no matter what it might sound like behind the bedroom door, John was not--could not--be shagging a man in there. 

Because if John Watson was going to shag a man, than it would bloody well be Sherlock Holmes.

No, wait, Sherlock was sure there was a flaw in that logic somewhere but he couldn't be arsed to find it at the moment. 

They'd returned to the flat with the mysterious Commander Bond, who had inexplicably been invited on their post case feast with them. Sherlock started playing the violin, as he sometimes did to relax in the post case bliss, before the post case boredom set in. At some point, John and Commander Bloody Bond disappeared and Sherlock heard those very puzzling sounds over a lovely Bach concerto. Groans, thumps, squeaking bedsprings. It did rather sound like that time John and Sarah had been in the bedroom, before Sherlock accidentally set fire to the kitchen.

What were those noises? Could they be wrestling in there?

Well, there was nothing for it. Sherlock had better check and see. Just in case Commander Bloody Bond was murdering John up there. 

Since John didn't look kindly on Sherlock barging into his bedroom unannounced, Sherlock crept up the stairs to the storage room next to John's bedroom. He soundlessly crept to his secret vantage point on John's room. Though he knew that John would also consider this hidey-hole an invasion of privacy, John was unlikely to discover the passage between the two rooms and therefore was considerably less likely to shout about it. Sherlock slipped into the connecting door and cracked the adjoining one. 

And simply stared at the sight of John and Commander Bloody Bond doing exactly as he'd suspected.

Sherlock could not have torn his gaze from the copulating couple on the bed if Moriarty had come up behind him and goosed him right on the arse. 

And he paid dearly for his sins over the next several days. 

For every time Sherlock shut his eyes or paused to think, images of John and Bond intertwined burned on the back of his eyelids like his own personal pornographic hell. All that golden skin over those sharply defined muscles, the blue eyes deepening to cobalt, John's amazing smile... Sherlock longed to be the one John touched and teased and loved so expertly.

Sherlock hadn't known these things were possible. In the abstract, he'd known. He even, despite what Moriarty and Irene Adler might say, did have some real world experience. But, he'd never known, never considered, these things were possible with John "I'm not gay" Watson. 

But now he did. 

Now all he desired, all he thought about, all he obsessed over...was how to get John Watson into his bed.


End file.
